Solid Ground
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: Piece by piece, they're building something that lasts.


Getting shot feels weird when you're a hologram.

I mean, apart from the obvious, apart from the waking up in the morning and going, hey, I'm off to be incorporeal in the not-too-distant past for a while, maybe do lunch if nobody's in immediate danger of dying horribly. You get over the sheer impossibility of the whole thing, and when people ask how your day went, you sure as hell don't tell them, and after a while they stop asking. That part's fine.

Even having a bullet go right through you like you're not even there isn't half bad, because it comes with the particular bonus of not having to feel any pain, of not being stuck in hospital rooms with nothing but your distressingly unrealistic nurse-type fantasies to keep you company. It feels good, even, watching that little blur of metal. Untouchable.

No, the really weird part – the part that keeps you up nights – is the bit where some nozzle is pointing a gun right at you, where some fluke of physics is all that's keeping him from snuffing out your life, and he doesn't even know it.

Some people say you can tell in someone's eyes what they're about to do, like if they've got a gun in their hand, say, and they're pointing it in your general vicinity. People say you should be able to see it when they're prepared to pull the trigger, like for that second you're so tightly connected with the shooter that you can read each other's thoughts. Maybe it's electric, maybe it's something to do with instinct or psychology. I never really thought about it – I mean, what do I care, right? There's a gun in my face.

So this guy has a gun pointed at me, and I'm looking him in the eye, and I'm seeing nothing, and just like that I've got chills up and down my spine. It makes the whole thing seem more mindless than usual, more senseless. Unnatural. It's sick, but you miss that bit of humanity, that personal touch.

I don't flinch when I hear the gunshot.

Here's another thing about being a hologram: you do stupid stuff. If somebody made a manual for this sort of thing, I'd pay a fortune for it. Hell, I'd settle for a big neon sign that'd flash "Hey, you're a hologram!" at appropriate intervals – it'd stop me walking around cars, waiting for doors to open when I could just ghost through the wall, that kind of thing.

It'd probably also keep me from leaping valiantly in front of my best friend to take a bullet for him instead of doing the smart thing and yelling a warning.

Neon sign. Maybe I should get Ziggy on that.

There's a yelp behind me, and by the time I've turned around, Sam's already out of sight, scrambling behind one of the big packing crates, which definitely bodes well, because that isn't the sort of mobility you'd expect a mortally injured person to exhibit. Sometimes it seems like the guy was born with a horseshoe in an unlikely place. "Sam!"

He doesn't answer, which makes sense, and I take the opportunity to scope out the particular brand of sleaze that's after him today: tall, young, kinda awkward, like he's not totally sure his feet are connected to the rest of his body. Awkward Guy's looking spooked, like he'd been working up the nerve to do the hit and it had never occurred to him that something could possibly go wrong. Trying to look him in the eyes is freaking me out, though, so I fade back to where Sam's hiding, check the handlink for any data.

"You're okay, Sam. McTavish spends a while in the hospital, but it looks like he gets out-" And it's stupid, because I have the abridged version of those hospital reports in my hand, I know full well there's just some soft-tissue damage, but there's this huge jolt of adrenaline when I see the blood on Sam's sleeve.

Being a hologram means you can't smell things, or so everyone in the know keeps telling me, but I swear, just the sight of that blood makes everything seem coppery. I crouch down beside Sam, and yeah, that neon sign would've been great, because I reach out and my hand goes right through him. We both pull faces.

"I'm okay," he mumbles, but it sounds more like he's just parroting me than being totally convinced of the fact. Like it's an afterthought, he slaps a hand over the wound, applying pressure with a grimace. Yeah, probably stings like hell.

I peek through the box to see Awkward Guy making an uncertain approach. "I don't suppose you have a gun hidden on your person?"

Sam shrugs laconically, then seems to shake himself and tries all the pockets of his baggy jacket, without success. He stretches down to reach for an ankle holster, even, but all that does is make him cringe and fall back against the box, panting for breath. I figure it's best not to mention that every time he overexerts himself, the recorded length of McTavish's hospital stay increases. "Doesn't look like it."

"Okay, well," I say, and my hands are actually itching with the urge to do something, like muscle memory's taking over, like I've got a sidearm on me that can really do damage. I make a fist a couple times, releasing the tension. Sam's looking at me funny, so I snap out of it and get back to doing helpful hologram-type stuff. "The guy's about twenty feet away, coming closer. I think he's pretty freaked out, Sam. He thinks you're waiting in the shadows to pick him off."

"Great," Sam mouths, and gets to his feet, dead quiet. I wonder if that's some leftover reflex from this McTavish guy being a cop and all, or if it's all Sam, and then I don't have time to wonder anymore, because Awkward Guy's making his move, and then Sam's taking two long strides and delivering a perfect kick right to his jaw. Awkward Guy drops like a sack of hammers, and Sam wobbles and follows suit, hitting the floor with a thud that makes me wince.

I crouch down next to him again, stupidly put my hands through his shoulders when he tries to sit up. "Hey, Sam, stay down, okay? Backup will be here in ten, fifteen minutes tops."

With a groan, Sam falls back, letting his head bump against the floor. "Great," he says. "I don't suppose Ziggy thinks I was just here to keep McTavish from getting gunned down?"

I glare at the handlink, give it a good whack for emphasis. "Nah, Ziggy's still convinced you're here to patch things up with Moira."

"Incurable romantic," Sam says, but he's wearing a goofy grin that probably means he's on an adrenaline high. I can sympathize.

We're both quiet for a bit while he pokes around the hole in his arm, and I wonder how much medical knowledge is still stored in that swiss-cheesed brain of his this time around, but it seems like he's got the applying pressure thing down. Besides, Ziggy tells me he's not in any danger of bleeding out before help arrives, so it's not like he can actively make things worse.

I sit down next to him, make like I'm leaning against one of the packing crates, which will probably play hell with my back, but hey, sometimes you've gotta feel connected to something, right?

I don't often get to experience the downtime that comes with this game. When things are quiet, I mostly take the chance to head out and get some answers out of whoever's in Sam's body this time around, or I grab a stale sandwich from the machine, or I sneak off for a couple hours of quality time with Tina. This would be a prime opportunity, since I know exactly how this is gonna go down: the cops will show, Sam will get rushed off to the hospital, Sam will get patched up, everybody's fine.

Of course, there's ten or fifteen minutes of waiting involved there, and there's no way in hell I'm leaving Sam on his own for this.

"It's a bit like dying," Sam says, dreamily, and I freeze, and for a second the adrenaline's buzzing so much I can't even remember how to check the handlink, but no, nothing's changed, he's still gonna be fine.

"Nobody's dying, Sam. McTavish gets full use of his arm back, even." I take a deep breath. My hands are shaking; if Sam weren't looking so out-of-it, I'd yell at him for scaring the hell out of me. Or maybe not – I'm still feeling pretty crappy about playing the hero instead of warning him about Awkward Guy's gun.

"Not that," he says, waving a hand. "Leaping, I mean. It's a bit like dying."

"Uh-huh."

That has the desired effect of getting him to snap back to reality and glower at me, which means he can't be feeling all that terrible. "Hear me out, okay, Al? I might be delirious. You should listen to my deathbed musings."

"So who's on their deathbed?" I lean over, make a show of squinting at his wound. "It looks like the bleeding's mostly stopped, Sam. You're malingering."

His scowl deepens, which looks even more ridiculous since he's flat on his back, but there's a spark of laughter in his eyes. "Who's the doctor, here?"

I hold up my hands in surrender. "Okay, okay."

"It's like-" He goes quiet for a second, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket. "I don't know, Al. You know when you're about to die – I mean really about to die, when you can see it happening in your head, when you know exactly what's coming?"

I shrug instead of answering.

Sam seems to be warming to his topic, picking up speed. "You start thinking about things you wish you'd done, things you wanted to make time for. And most of them are little things, like wishing you smiled more, or gave fifty bucks to the guy on the street corner, or took that class on horticulture, or asked that girl to marry you."

His face doesn't change at that last one, but I have to look away. He doesn't notice, too wrapped up in what he's saying, back to full-on lecturer mode.

"And leaping's kind of like that. I mean, I always fix the one big regret – get A and B together, save C's life, keep the company from going under – but all the little ones, all the tiny little insignificant mysteries are still out there, still waiting." He looks up at me. "I want to find out who marries who, who wins their first Little League game, who gets the confidence to do what they really want with their life, that kind of thing. But it all evaporates every time I leap." He shrugs, adjusting his grip on his arm, closing his eyes. "I just want to build something, Al. Something that lasts."

He stops talking, and I look up at the ceiling, at the cross-beams and the cobwebs, and I think maybe I can hear sirens off in the distance. It's eerie, haunting. I feel like I should be whispering. "You've still got a life of your own, you know. You're building things for Sam Beckett, each leap you take."

He doesn't say anything, so I look back down at him, and we lock eyes for a second. And you know, some people say you can look someone in the eye, know exactly what he's going to do, know exactly what he's thinking. Some people are full of crap.

"Thanks," he says, and the sirens are getting louder now, definitely headed this way.

I snort. "For what? I didn't do anything. I'm a hologram, remember?"

"Al," he says, and he reaches up, hangs his hand right over mine, and for a second it's like I'm really there, like we're really touching, and for a second it doesn't matter that his hand's got blood on it, that he's lying in a warehouse halfway across the country ten years ago. For a second, we're the only things real in the room. "Thanks."

Nobody who's seen the stuff Sam's seen should be able to look that earnest, but after a second I figure hey, why the hell not, and then I'm smiling, too.

Behind us, the doors burst open. The cavalry's here.


End file.
